


Pretty Much Fucked

by xpityx



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 10:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19149376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: “Good evening,” said a deep, polite voice from his immediate left.Jon nearly fell off the roof.





	Pretty Much Fucked

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: any resemblance to any persons or places is entirely coinci… Actually, that’s a total lie. 95% of things in here (minus the angsty bits) are places I or my friends have lived/visited or things my friends have done. Except for the REALLY stupid things, which are things I have done. Basically I lived in London for eight years and I hope no-one I know ever reads this cause yeah.
> 
> Title from the excellent [Mindless Faith song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yg17yP-D1nc), which Jon would have undoubtedly danced to at some point in his goth club.
> 
> A note about names: I personally find fantasy names really unwieldy in a modern AU, so I've changed them as I see fit. 
> 
> Last but not least, a big thank you to Merulanoir for the beta - who is [a phenomenal writer in their own right](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) so do go check out their fic. And also thank you to everyone who read, kudos'd and/or commented on my other Jonmund fics - I wasn't even considering writing any more of this pairing, but you guys were just so awesome that it inspired me to write this, so thank you.

 

It had rained again in the night. The carpet in the communal stairwell was soaked and the floor creaked alarmingly as he walked downstairs to the front door. The stairs all tilted drunkenly inwards, though he hadn’t really noticed until Ygritte, his ex, had commented on it. _You have no observation skills, Jon_ , she’d said.

 

He missed her something fierce, but hadn’t felt able to follow her back to Iceland when her visa had expired. They’d known from the beginning that it was a decision he’d have to make, and he’d been sorry when he’d realised that he didn’t want to go back with her. He’d apologised half a dozen times before she’d told him that she didn’t regret their time together and if he kept apologising she’d start to think that he _did._ He shut up about it then and tried to enjoy their remaining months. That had been a little over two years ago now though, but he just didn’t seem to have the energy to date.

 

It was easy to blame his lack on enthusiasm on the city: London was big, people were busy, Tinder was boring. Plus, the whole set-up of online dating made him slightly uncomfortable: sliding through pictures of women like a horse show went against everything he’d learnt was appropriate. Mostly from his sister, Dany. No-one else in his family had done much worth learning from.

 

The market was already in full swing when he stepped outside, almost colliding with someone dragging a bag from the laundrette next door. He waved hello to Sanjeed as he walked past the sandwich shop under his building, weaving round the queue that was already ten people deep on the pavement. The smell of paella, barbecued meat and rotting vegetables reached him, half delicious, half nauseating. He rounded the corner to see his bus fly down the road and briefly considered running for it, but apathy won out. As long as he worked his weekly hours no-one cared what time he turned up in the morning.

 

Work was a mix of copy-writing, data-entry, and basic website maintenance at a homeless charity in Kentish Town, about four miles from Angel. It just about paid the bills for the obscenely expensive bedsit he rented, takeaways twice a week, and the odd night out. He didn’t drink often, which helped, though it didn’t to do much for his social life.

 

He’d turn twenty-nine on his next birthday, and sporadically thought about putting in a sabbatical request at work so he could… well, that’s as far as his planning usually got. Travel, perhaps.  

 

His left hand decided that it wasn’t going to co-operate that day so he spent most of the time wearing his headset for voice-inputting rather than wearing out his right hand by typing one-handed. He was aware that he looked like the worst kind of corporate douche, but there was no helping it. Edd laughed every time he looked at Jon in it, so at least he was causing someone joy. He was supposed to have a proper wrist rest for his arm, but someone inevitably stole it whenever he left the office.

 

“Okay, who has it?” He asked the tiny, stuffy room once he’d been there a couple of hours. “Come on, none of you are missing any fingers are you? Give it back.”

 

After a moment of guilty silence, Bob from HR held it above his head.

 

He went to fetch it back and returned to his data-entry, making a non-work appropriate gesture at Edd as he put his headset back on.

 

He treated himself to a takeaway after work from the new Chinese that had opened round the corner, then trudged back up the stairs to his second floor flat.

 

Later that night he climbed out of the window to sit on the flat roof, careful of the place just to the right of the windowsill that lurched uncomfortably if he tried to put his weight on it. The building he lived in was a couple of hundred years old and the only thing holding it up these days were the woodlice and the buildings either side. He edged a little further left, sitting on the wall directly over the narrow alley, two floors below. If he ignored the massive Tesco car park directly below him then the view wasn’t that bad: a small park provided some greenery and the uneven roofline was a dramatic silhouette against a pollution-neon sunset.

 

It was all very relaxing—the odd scream of an ambulance siren aside.

 

“Good evening,” said a deep, polite voice from his immediate left. Jon nearly fell off the roof.

 

“Whoa there!”

 

A strong hand reached over the narrow gap of the alley and clutched his bicep, steadying him.

 

“Sorry, didn't mean to startle you,” said the voice to whom the hand belonged.

 

Jon made sure he wasn’t in danger of falling two floors onto concrete anytime soon before taking his arm back and turning around. A big man, that was his first impression. It was dim despite the orange glow of the streetlights, but he could see that his would-be rescuer had a chaotic beard and at least one facial piercing that glinted as he moved. He gave the general impression of either owning a Harley Davidson and a lot of survival guides, or being a vegan hipster. It was difficult to tell in the low light.

 

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his rapid heartbeat overriding any politeness he might have otherwise displayed. Also, who the hell spoke to a stranger in London?

 

“Watching the sunset, same as you,” the man replied, “I thought I’d be neighbourly and say hello. We just moved in last week.”

 

“Well, welcome to the neighbourhood,” Jon said, then hoped the other man didn’t know the city well enough to know how ridiculous that sounded. Jon had lived in the same flat for ten years and still didn't know any of his neighbour’s names; even the people on his floor that he shared a bathroom with.

 

“Thank you,” the man replied with every appearance of gratitude.

 

“I’m Tormund,” he added, holding out his hand to shake.

 

It was a slightly awkward angle as they were sat on two different roofs, but he shook the proffered hand automatically.

 

“Jon,” he replied, interested despite himself in what this overly friendly stranger would do next.

 

“You looked like a bird, sat on the roof like that, all in black,” Tormund said, as if this was a normal comment to make to the stranger who you were sharing a non-demised roof with at 11pm on a work night.

 

“Did I?” Jon replied, after a small pause where he tried to think of something more suitable to say.

 

“Yes. Like a crow.” Tormund stated, “did you see the movie? I liked the bit where the car blew up.”

 

“Yeah, I saw it, when I was a kid I think,” Jon said, paying more attention to Tormund’s accent than his words, though the joke was that there were no actual Londoners living in London, so accents were ten a penny.

 

“Is there a movie theatre near by?” Tormund asked.

 

“Yeah,” Jon pointed over to his right, “there’s an Odeon cinema just over there.”

 

“Cinema! Of course, I forget that British English uses different words. Well, now we are friends we should go to the cinema. You like movies, I mean, films — yes?”

 

“Yes?” Jon said, truly lost now.

 

“Excellent! Well, I must get inside before the water is turned off. Good night, Jon the Crow!”

 

“Good night,” Jon replied, weakly.

 

 _What_ , as Edd would say, _the everloving fuck_?

 

-

 

The encounter had been so weird that parts of it came back to him at random points the next day. He’d be typing up anonymised client details and suddenly a piece of the conversation, ‘ _I liked the bit where the car blew up_ ’, would slide into his mind. He’d mostly forgotten about it by the end of the week though, until he was lugging an ikea bag full of dirty washing one-handed into the laundrette and someone announced his name at full volume to everyone in there.

 

Two women in niqab, a skinny girl in a tracksuit and a family he recognised vaguely as living somewhere close by all turned to look at him, but it was the massive man with the orange beard bearing down on him who Jon was looking at.

 

“Tormund?” Jon said, taking a guess.

 

Tormund laughed, and everyone’s attention switched to him.

 

“You remembered! Come in, come in!” He gestured hugely, as if he were inviting Jon into his kingdom, instead of the local, self-automated laundrette. “You must come use the flat’s machines,” he continued in what was apparently his usual speaking volume. “These machines are so expensive!”

 

While that was absolutely true, Jon was not 100% sure he should be following this loud near-stranger into his home. For one thing, in the daylight he was even more huge than he had seemed in the dark. He must have been six foot to Jon’s 5ft8, with wide shoulders and a thick septum ring tucked into his wild facial hair. He was wearing a t-shirt despite London’s sad attempt at spring weather, and had a pair of pink plastic sunglasses balanced on his head.

 

He looked like someone you might follow down a rabbit hole rather than to a reasonably-priced washing machine.

 

“It is just through this door here,” Tormund said, perhaps guessing the direction of his thoughts.

 

Sure enough they went through an unlocked door to find two more washers, both with prominent signs on them that declared them to be for building residents only.

 

“I’m using this one,” Tormund said, indicating the spinning machine, “but this one is free.”

 

Not having to spend over a tenner on getting his clothes clean was not something he was about to pass on, so he said a genuine thank you and started to shove his laundry in the machine.

 

Tormund had managed to fold himself onto one of the tiny, orange deck chairs that served as the seating area, and Jon attempted to think of some small talk.

 

“How are you enjoying Angel?” he asked, naming the area for the nearest tube station, rather than the district, as most people did.

 

“I like it, the people are all friendly,” Tormund enthused.

 

Jon had a sudden image of Tormund striding through the streets and introducing himself to the harassed office workers than streamed in at lunchtime to get a sandwich from Marks and Spencers.

 

“How long have you lived here?” Tormund asked, saving Jon from thinking of an adequate reply.

 

“Ten years.”

 

“So you must know the area well?”

 

“I guess? Waitrose reduces all their ready meals to half price at 9pm,” he offered, then wondered if the washing machine was big enough to drown himself in.

 

Tormund simply nodded, as if this was worthy advice.

 

“Any good pubs?” Tormund asked.

 

“I don’t really drink that much,” Jon replied, hoping not to be asked any of the follow-up questions people inevitably seemed compelled to voice. At least Tormund hadn’t asked him about his missing fingers yet.

 

“Do you dance?”

 

Jon paused in the act of pouring washing powder into the machine, before rolling with the abrupt change in topic. Maybe if you spoke to him long enough you just got used to it.

 

“Yeah, actually I do. I’m more picky about the venue than the music though—I hate the big places like Fabric and Circus.”

 

“I have been out in Vauxhall already, but it’s a little far from here,” Tormund replied.

 

“There’s a club here that I go to sometimes, it’s in a warehouse behind the tube station.” Jon had only discovered it two years ago, so tucked away was it. Even then he’d only heard of it though a conversation with a pair of drunk goths as they waited for a bus.

 

“What kind of club is it?”

 

“It’s a goth club. Not really my kind of music, but it has a good beat and it’s not a meat market.”

 

“A goth club! I knew it: you _are_ a crow!”

 

Jon blinked before remembering one of the many odd lines from their first conversation.

 

“What animal are you then?” Jon asked, leaning against the machine as it started it’s cycle.

 

“A bear, of course.”

 

Jon got the feeling there was a joke in that he wasn’t quite getting, but he’d had that feeling for half the conversation, so he took the reply at face value.

 

They talked a little about London in general, concentrating on the uniting topic of the city: the high rents and the terrible flats. Jon shared his horror stories of birds falling down the poorly blocked off chimney and chirping sadly in the walls for a few days before stopping, which might have been worse. Tormund explained that his flat shared a water supply with the laundrette, and so it got turned off at 11pm and only turned on again at 8am when the shop opened in the morning. Jon wanted to be surprised, but wasn’t.

 

They chatted all through Jon’s two loads of washing, drying, and sad attempts at folding. Anything heavier than jeans was difficult to keep between his fingers on his left, so he mostly swirled the big stuff into a vague pile. Tormund ending up taking his sheets off him and folding them properly with him, holding opposite sides then stepping together like a very strange dance. He didn’t think he’d folded sheets with another person since he’d—very briefly—lived with his sister.

 

When they said goodbye Tormund made him promise to come up and knock on the door to the upstairs flat next time he had washing to do, which Jon had absolutely no intention of doing, but promised anyway. One couldn’t go around asking near-strangers to use their washing machines, it was just not a possibility.

 

That was how he explained it to Dany the next day, as they chatted over extremely good, extremely cheap green curry at Maries Cafe. This week was Jon’s turn to pay for lunch, so they were cycling through one of the three affordable restaurants he knew. When Dany paid they went to places like the Almeida on Upper Street and Jon got dirty looks from the other diners for his unironed clothes.

 

“So you no longer have to pay £13.50 to get your laundry washed and dried, a number I know because you complain about it so often, and yet you’re going to turn down access to a free washing machine because….?”

 

Dany had a degree in Accountancy and an MBA: saying no to opportunities for the sake of politeness was not an attribute of hers.

 

“Look, it’s just not done. I know you pretend not to know how social niceties work, but I’ve seen you acknowledge them and then proceed to ignore them as you see fit, so I know you get it.”

 

“Was he weird?”

 

“Well, yeah, but in a normal way.”

 

Dany raised an eyebrow.

 

“I mean, he didn’t seem like he was going to chop me up and roast the pieces over an open fire,” Jon clarified.

 

“Well then!” Dany replied, as if his lack of serial killer vibes was the only thing standing in the way of free laundry facilities.

 

“How are you, anyway?” Jon asked, not so subtly changing the subject.

 

“Good. The new accountant asked me to make him a coffee at the beginning of a meeting yesterday.”

 

“Oh yeah? What did you say?”

 

“No.”

 

Jon laughed. He could just imagine it—she wouldn’t have even looked up while this guy just stood there and blinked.

 

There was only one other woman with a standing invite to the top level briefings: Head of HR, Missy Astapor. She and Dany had bonded over their approach to working with so many men: never fetch something for them, never do their admin work, and never, ever make them tea or coffee. When she’d started working in the City she used to practice saying no to Jon in more and more elaborately polite ways. The first time she’d felt secure enough in her position to give a flat no had been a year ago. They’d waited a week, and when she hadn’t been pulled up by management for it they’d gone out and celebrated, he, Dany and Missy. They were still waiting for Missy’s day to come.

 

“I’m glad you’ve found a new person to inflict yourself on, anyway,” Dany said, returning them to their earlier topic of conversation. It was almost a nice thing to say, which made Jon wary.

 

“What have you done?”

 

“I’m going to see them next week, I thought you might like to come.” Dany wasn’t even looking at him when she said it, she was chasing the last of her rice around her bowl.

 

“I’ll come if you want me to, but I think I make it worse,” Jon replied, honestly.

 

“They’re your parents too, Jon.”

 

“Adoptive parents.”

 

“Does that make me just your adoptive sister then?”

 

“No, no of course not Dany. You know that.”

 

“I do,” she admitted, “you wouldn’t be so annoying if you weren’t my brother.”

 

Jon rolled his eyes, glad they were past the feelings part of the conversation.

 

“Do you want me to come?” He asked.

 

“No, I think you’re right. They look at you and they just see…”

 

“The place where Vincent should be,” Jon finished, grimly.

 

Sometimes Jon desperately wanted to ask why they’d bothered with him when they’d already had a son they loved so much. Ari and Rae Targey had adopted him when he was five years old. He had never known what had happened to his birth parents, and had not put much effort into finding out. He’d had his chance at family, and had gotten an older sister who’d picked him over her own brother—he thought he’d been pretty lucky, all things considered. Vincent had hated him from the beginning, and had only grown worse as they’d gotten older. He’d been dead 13 years, but he was still the most important thing in his parents’ lives.

 

“It’s fine,” Dany said, briskly, “I’ll tell them you’re busy with work.”

 

-

 

He didn’t knock at the flat next time he’d gone to the laundry, but the second he’d walked into the laundrette a fat woman with a mane of beautiful, green hair had taken one look at him and yelled, “Tormund!” up the stairs.

 

Tormund had come thundering down the stairs and had taken him to use the free machines, keeping him company the whole time. Jon had admitted defeat to himself and had asked Tormund the usual getting to know you questions, as he had obviously made a new friend without quite meaning to. He was from Tampere in Finland, but his mother was British and he had recently gotten his British passport. He thought Tormund was older than him, judging by the amount of places he’d lived, probably in his late 30s.

 

He shared the upstairs flat with two Finns with working holiday visas who’d he’d met on the plane on the way over: Adda, with the green hair, and Nora who he hadn’t met yet. Tormund seemed to make friends as easily as breathing. He worked freelance as a full stack developer, though he sometimes missed working with other people, he didn’t particularly like office culture which was something Jon could wholeheartedly agree with.

 

They commiserated over the atrocities of Javascript for the whole time Jon’s clothes were in the dryer, and Jon passed him one side of his sheets to fold without even thinking about it. He managed to casually ask for Tormund’s Whatsapp as he was folding the last of his clothes, and Tormund took out his phone—complete with a fuzzy, Hello Kitty case—so they could swap details.

 

In no time Tormund became a regular feature in Jon’s life. As much a part of his week as Dany, Sam and Edd were. He was confident, funny, and told some of the most outrageous stories he’d ever heard. The one about accidentally spending some Hollywood big-shot’s drug money had Jon laughing so hard that people in the street had crossed the road to avoid them.

 

He knew it was a sadly low place to set the bar, but the fact that Tormund had never shown the slightest curiosity about his mangled hand or the thick scars that flowed down from his wrist and under his t-shirt was something that Jon was grateful for. He barely went a week without someone feeling the need to ask him what had happened in a sickly, sympathetic voice. He always gritted out _car crash_ , unless Edd or Sam was there, in which case they leant over and told whoever it was to mind their own business. Sam was polite about it, Edd was Edd about it, and he loved them both.

 

Although he went to the goth club only about once a month—usually when he’d had a particularly shitty week and loud music was the only cure—Tormund had decided that it would be a good place to hang out.

 

His first clue should have been the entrance fee when he turned up that Saturday.  Slimes cost a bargain price of a fiver if you had a membership card, yet he’d had to cough up £25 to get in this evening. He’d thought there was just some bands playing or something, but everyone seemed either incredibly overdressed or incredibly naked, and for once his usual black jeans and t-shirt got him a few judgemental looks. He’d seen one of the guys he usually said hi to, Enzo, disappearing around one of Slimelight’s many corners and he, at least, had looked as normal as a 50 year old goth wearing mostly leather ever looked.

 

He wandered into the courtyard downstairs—which had the benefit of being the only place in the club with actual lighting—and did a double take when he saw Tormund’s distinctive hair. He stood and stared for a moment, the sea of people flowing around him in a wave of black latex and nipple tassels.

 

Tormund was wearing short shorts, suspenders, white socks and doc martens. And that was it. Jon’s eye snagged on the surprisingly delicate floral tattoo that was visible through the hair on his thigh. He tore his gaze upwards as he realised that Tormund was making his way towards him, politely excusing himself as he navigated the crowd.

 

“Little crow!” he announced once he was within arm’s reach.

 

“Hi,” Jon said, trying to keep his eyes on Tormund’s face. One of his nipples was pierced, a delicate ring through it, which seemed a little incongruous compared to the hefty size of his stretched septum piercing.

 

It was possible that Jon was panicking somewhat.

 

“Jon?”

 

“Yeah, hi. Is this a theme night or something?”

 

“It’s Torture Garden, Jon,” Tormund replied, as if that explained everything. “It’s a famous fetish night. They hold them in Finland too, sometimes.”

 

“Oh. That explains the dude in the cockring,” Jon said, nonplussed.

 

“Just take off your shirt and you’ll fit in, not problem.”

 

Jon froze. Normally he’d just laugh of the suggestion, but he was already a little on edge and the idea of taking his shirt off and showing his scars was horrifying.

 

“Jon?” Tormund put a tentative hand on his arm, “it was a bad joke, sorry. Do you want to leave?”

 

“No,” Jon shook his head, getting rid of the image of himself shirtless, “I was just a little surprised. I didn’t know there was a… a fetish night here.”

 

“I think they usually hold them at a different venue, so maybe you just missed them so far,” Tormund suggested.

 

“They still have a dance floor, yeah?”

 

“I think so, I’ve only seen the dungeon and the bar so far, but if you want we can go look for it.”

 

Jon decided that the dungeon was not somewhere he was planning on visiting.

 

The joy of dancing with Tormund was that he didn’t get hit on. He’d gone to the bar earlier to get himself a coke and Tormund another beer, and had two separate people ask him if he topped or bottomed. He’d said ‘no, thank you’ both times and told himself that one day, far in the future, this would make a funny story to tell Sam and Edd.

 

He managed another hour or so before spotting a woman getting rimmed on one of the sofas he usually sat on and decided it was time to go home. Consenting adults were welcome to fuck however they wished to, but he didn’t want to see it.

 

He waved off Tormund’s offer to walk him home, but did ask to be walked to the door. Tormund seemed delighted by the request, but Jon wasn’t so far buried in his masculinity  that he couldn’t take advantage of having a much more intimidating friend once in a while.

 

“Cinema next time,” Jon said, decisively once they reached the door.

 

Tormund laughed and reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

 

“Cinema next time,” he agreed.

 

-

 

The fact that Tormund might not be straight had already occurred to him. He had a casual disregard for gender norms that Jon associated with the LGBT community. Not that he had many gay friends. Not that he had many friends. However Dany was bi, and he’d been to gay clubs with her and her friends a handful of times. He had always thought of himself as pretty open-minded, but thinking about Tormund, dressed only in those tiny shorts, being hit on by any number of pretty guys was… well, he wasn’t sure what it was, but it was not a great feeling.

 

He was determined not to be an idiot about it though. Making friends was hard in London, and even harder as he inched towards 30. Sam was recently married and spent a lot of time with his new wife and step-daughter. Jon was always welcome at their tiny apartment up in Muswell Hill, but he sometimes felt a little left behind. Even Edd, who had been single the whole time Jon had known him, had recently started dating a woman he’d met at the Inclusive Mosque Initiative, of all places.

 

 _“Free food!”_ had been his reasoning when Sam had pointed out that Edd had never previously shown any sign of being religious. There was something about working in the charity sector that meant that any and all opportunities for free food were looked on with reverence. Edd even carried tupperware so he could steal the leftover biscuits at the end of a meeting.

 

His friends seemed to be moving onto the next stage of adulthood, while Jon ate half price ready meals and sat on his roof. Tormund and his housemates were a welcome addition to his life, and he wasn’t about to ruin it by being… whatever he was being.

 

They did go to the cinema, seeing some instantly forgettable superhero film with Nora and Adda. He sat back and listened in awe as they spent an hour in a cafe deconstructing various themes and how they upheld the status quo. Jon had thought it was a kinda dumb summer blockbuster, but apparently he was being fed capitalist propaganda the whole time.

 

By the tail end of summer they’d fallen into as much of a routine as he and Dany had: on a Thursday Jon would go round to Tormund’s flat: they’d get takeaway and watch netflix, flicking each other memes on Whatsapp the whole time. The usually did something on the weekend as well, under the guise of Jon showing Tormund around London. As Jon had lived his whole life either in, or in proximity to London without doing anything even remotely touristy, he wasn’t sure how much of a tour guide he made, but they did have fun. All three of his neighbours also occasionally popped over to use his shower after 11pm when their own water had been turned off, and on two occasions over the summer someone forgot to turn a tap off, and woke up the next morning to discover the water had been turned back on and both the flat and the laundrette were wetter than they were designed to be.

 

Dany had started suggesting that maybe she should meet his new best friend, but for some reason Jon didn’t like the idea. He felt possessive of Tormund’s friendship in a way he’d never experienced before. He’d been teary-eyed at Sam’s wedding, and had enjoyed telling Edd’s new girlfriend every embarrassing thing Edd had ever done, up to and including the time he’d gone upstairs to use the toilet at a dinner party, and then had come back down minus his clothes and tried to get into a cupboard. They’d all decided the next morning that Supper Clubs were not for them.

 

He didn't give it much thought: Tormund was just Tormund, a friend who happened to live next door. Which worked out fine, until one Thursday instead of going to work, he took the day off so he could go to his annual physio follow-up. He usually went to UCH, which was just down the road, but this time his appointment letter had said that he needed to go to St Leonards, way over in Hackney. To add insult to injury the words ‘NHS: Your Choice’ were emblazoned across the top of the letter.

 

The hospital might have been different but the appointment was the same: a physio, usually someone who looked barely old enough to have finished their degree, made him do ridiculously painful things that he never bothered doing in his everyday life. Touching his toes, for example: he could do it with his right no problem, but stretching the left that far was agony. Why he would ever need to touch the floor with both hands at any point was beyond him—he just picked things up with his right hand.

 

He was tired and in pain by the end of the of the appointment and managed to get on the wrong bus, adding twenty minutes to his journey home. He debated texting Tormund to take a rain check for the evening, but sitting around his flat feeling sorry for himself was probably not a great idea.

 

Adda answered the door to him with a plastic bag over her head that smelled of harsh chemicals. He said hello went and knocked on Tormund’s door. It was always fifty-fifty if he would throw open the door and envelop Jon in a hug or grunt something in Finnish if he was caught up in coding. It was the latter today, so Jon let himself in and threw himself down onto Tormund’s double bed, planning on staying there until food appeared.

 

“You look tired, Jon the Crow,” Tormund commented once he noticed Jon on his bed. “Is that a grey hoodie?” He added.

 

It was actually a black hoodie that had faded so much that it was a dirty grey colour, but he wasn’t about to admit that.

 

“Fuck you, I wear colours,” Jon told the pillow.

 

“That’s a black hoodie you have washed too many times.”

 

“No it’s not, I bought it like this: it’s grey.”

 

“Did you steal it from your homeless charity? That’s so wrong, Jon.”

 

Jon lifted up his right arm, which was currently the only limb that was still in some kind of working order, and gave him the middle finger. Tormund chuckled.

 

“Would you like some tea, clothes thief?” He asked.

 

Jon made a vaguely positive noise, hoping to be brought one of Tormund’s herbal teas. The sound of the kettle boiling in the next room was soothing, and Jon rolled over, getting a little more comfortable. There was something lumpy under his back though, so he reached underneath himself and pulled out… a thong? His face heated; was it Tormund’s thong? No, it was a jockstrap, he realised. A very small jockstrap that probably didn’t belong to Tormund at all, and Jon was sat on Tormund’s bed, holding it up to the light like an idiot when Tormund came back in the room, a cup of tea in one hand.

 

“Er, sorry,” Jon said, at Tormund’s horrified look, “I just….”

 

“That’s Laurent’s, I’ll just…”

 

They did the most awkward swap ever, Jon trying not to touch anymore of some random dude’s used underwear than he already had and trying to take his tea in the same hand, as there was no way he was picking anything up with his left that day.

 

“I didn’t know you were seeing someone?” Jon said, into the ensuing awkward silence.

 

“I’m not, it’s just a….” Tormund made some gesture without looking around.

 

“You know I don’t care, right?” Jon said, hoping it was clear that he didn’t want to lie on someone else’s underwear because it was _someone else’s underwear_ , not because he was a homophobic fuck.

 

Tormund snorted softly, which could mean anything.

 

Jon was a little disappointed that Tormund hadn’t felt able to tell Jon he was seeing someone or whatever, but that was on Jon, so he kept it to himself. They had a quiet evening, watching some action movie that Jon had never heard of, then he dragged himself home at a reasonable hour and slept the sleep of the recently physio’d.

 

-

 

The mistake he made was telling Dany about it. It was her turn to pay for lunch so they were at the St Pancras Grand, which Jon actually liked: it wasn’t so expensive that everyone in there were dicks, but it was still nice and the food was good.

 

He’d told her the jockstrap story as his attempt at an amusing anecdote but, rather than laughing, she was looking at him with unholy glee. It was the kind of look that sane people would run from. It was the kind of look that Jon would normally run from, but his angus steak burger hadn’t arrived yet and he was looking forward to it.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re jealous,” she announced.

 

“I’m… No, I’m not.”

 

“What are the anecdote rules?”

 

“One minute for set up, one minute for story, pause, witty reveal,” he intoned.

 

“You spent four minutes talking about Tormund’s bed, thirty seconds on the jockstrap, and you’ve been moaning for,” she looked at her watch, “seven minutes about the fact that he didn’t tell you he’d fucked a random.”

 

“I’ve been saying that it’s fine that he didn’t tell me.”

 

“Yes, except that you’ve said that seven times in seven different ways. You’re not fine with it: you’re jealous.”

 

With the kind of timing that wait staff must practice, the waiter arrived with their food. Jon and Dany murmured _thank you’s_ and waited until he’d gone before continuing the conversation.

 

“Dany, I’m straight.”

 

She shrugged. “A lot of people are when they’ve never really considered any alternatives.”

 

They moved onto other topics once Jon had managed to prise the jockstrap story away from her immediate attention, but the idea that he’d never really thought about being anything other than decidedly heterosexual stayed with him. He didn’t date much, it was true. He’d had two serious relationships, neither of them lasting longer than two years, and three casual hookups which had been… not his favourite thing.

 

Back at his bedsit he tried to imagine fucking a guy, or being fucked by a guy and just couldn’t picture it. He even booted up his laptop and watched some gay porn, but it was just as off-putting as most porn was: dudes shoving their massive dicks into a hole, person to whom the hole belonged making pretend “I’m enjoying having this thing shoved in me” noises.

 

His first girlfriend had been a gym instructor named Siobhan: her biceps had been about as thick as Jon’s thighs and he’d never seen her wear any makeup. Ygritte hadn’t been particularly built, but she had a black belt in jujitsu and had been perfectly capable of bouncing him down a corridor if she so wished.

 

It was possible he had a type.

 

Tormund could undoubtedly throw him over his shoulder if he wanted to, and he had no problem joking Jon out of a bad mood. Jon tried to imagine kissing him and came up blank. He loved giving head and had spent enough time on his knees with Ygritte’s hands tight in his hair that it wasn’t so much of a stretch to imagine getting to his knees in front of Tormund. Jon put a hand on his dick, which was half-hard at that idea. Feeling like the world’s worst friend, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine Tormund’s big hands in his hair, pulling him toward his hard, leaking cock.

 

So he was attracted to Tormund. What did that make him, he wondered. Did it even matter in light of what a mess he’d made of things on Thursday was probably a more important question than how to refer to his sexuality.

 

Jon groaned and put his head down onto the table, partly because of his now-demanding erection and partly because he was pretty much fucked. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about what his parents thought about his apparently new desire for a man, which was admittedly a bleak way to look at it.

 

He had been jealous—he _was_ jealous, not only that he’d been moody as fuck about it. It wasn’t even worth asking Dany what he was supposed to do. Aside from the fact that he’d never live down the fact that she was right, he knew what she’d say: tell him.

 

Tormund had never shown the slightest bit of interest in Jon beyond that of a friend. Also, who the fuck would want a 28 year old who had exactly no experience with men? It was like being a virgin all over again. He tried to decide if he was bothered by the male thing or not, but decided he didn’t know how to feel about anything bigger than the fact that he was attracted to his friend.

 

He’d not seen Tormund at the weekend, which was not so unusual, but there was no way he could skip out on Thursday without a good reason. He didn’t _want_ to skip out on Thursday, but he felt like he owed it to their friendship to have a better handle on his realisation before he inflicted himself on Tormund again.

 

It was a good, adult response to a difficult situation, but one that failed to take into account the fact that Tormund knew where he lived.

 

-

 

He’d come home from work on Thursday in a good mood, which lasted until he realised that he was always in a good mood on a Thursday and why. He’d already texted Tormund to say he was going to see his sister this evening, to which he’d gotten a string of emojis in reply. He was in no mood to cook, so he dragged himself around the corner for take-away, then ate ginger chicken and rice while staring at the wall because watching netflix by himself on a Thursday was just too depressing to consider.

 

He was just considering suffering through the hand-cramp necessary to do the washing up when someone knocked on his door. It was inevitably one of his neighbours, and he girded himself for a conversation about the weather followed by whatever complaint they had about the state of the shared bathroom.

 

So of course, when he answered the door to find Tormund there, the first thing out of his mouth was, “how did you get in?”

 

“Your neighbour. Can I come in?”

 

Jon backed up out of the narrow entryway so Tormund could enter.

 

He’d been over a few times, but Jon’s bedsit consisted of a fixed table, and a tiny kitchenette, a very comfortable chair he’d found on the side of the road and a single bed. It wasn’t a place to hang out.

 

“Er, tea?” he offered.

 

“You knew that I’m gay, I’ve never hidden it,” Tormund said, quiet and serious.

 

Jon took a step towards him, feeling like the world’s worst friend.

 

“It’s not that, I swear it. I did know, I do know. I just… It’s something I need to sort out and I didn’t think it was fair to make you deal with it.”

 

“I just want to make sure you know I would never try anything with you: we're friends,” Tormund said.

 

Jon knew exactly what he meant, but it was also something that apparently he didn’t want to hear and his heart seized in his chest at the idea that Tormund would never want him the way Jon wanted him. Something must have shown on his face, as Tormund took a step forward and put his hand on Jon’s shoulder.

 

“Jon?”

 

Jon rubbed a hand over his face, trying to get his thoughts into some kind of order. Tormund, always quick with a hug or an arm around his shoulder, pulled him in and Jon went willingly. Tormund seemed to have no idea how long an appropriate male hug should last, and simply held on while Jon calmed himself down. He pulled back after a moment, and Tormund took a step back.

 

“I was jealous,” Jon admitted to the floor.

 

“Jealous?”

 

“Yeah, of that guy. I didn’t… I’ve never.” He took a breath,  “I didn’t even know I was into guys, but yeah—I was jealous of him and I was a dick about it and I’m sorry.”

 

There was a deep silence, and Jon risked a glance up at Tormund’s face. He looked, well, he looked like his straight friend had just told him he had a crush on him.

 

“You wanted it to be you?”

 

Jon nodded.

 

“Can I kiss you?” Tormund asked, after what felt like a considerable silence.

 

Jon jerked a little, but nodded again just on the off-chance he hadn’t misheard and Tormund had really just asked if he could kiss him.

 

Tormund took a step into his personal space and carefully tilted Jon’s head up. It was a chaste kiss, just a simple press of lips. Tormund’s facial hair was soft from what he could feel of it through his own, less wild beard. Jon wanted more, deepening the kiss and stepping closer so that he had to tilt his head back to keep their mouths in contact. He’d never kissed anyone taller than him before, and was surprised at how much he liked it. Tormund put his hands firmly on Jon’s waist and Jon moaned, shocking himself into pulling back.

 

Tormund looked down at him and grinned.

 

“More, little crow?” he asked.

 

“More,” Jon agreed.

 

They kissed again, still a sliver of space between their bodies. Jon could feel himself getting hard in his jeans. He desperately wanted to press against Tormund, but had no idea if that was appropriate. He probably wouldn’t grind his dick into a woman after one kiss, so he should probably follow the same rules. Tormund chose that moment to push his hands down onto his ass and squeeze. Jon moaned again, more loudly than before, and broke the kiss to bury his head in Tormund’s shoulder where he hopefully would shortly stop blushing.

 

“You okay there?” Tormund asked, moving into the last inch of space that separated them. Jon bucked his hips in response to the sudden pressure and grit his teeth against the sound he made.

 

Tormund chuckled, which did nothing to ease Jon’s blush, and squeezed his ass again.

 

Jon panted into his shoulder, fighting the urge to hump against any part of Tormund that he could reach. He could feel Tormund’s own erection as a line against his stomach, and wondered what the steps were between their current position and being allowed to suck it.

 

“I hate you,” Jon mumbled.

 

“Funny, that’s not what it sounds like.”

 

Jon looked up to see Tormund looking down at him.

 

“Still with me?” Tormund asked.

 

“Yeah, yeah. I want…” Maybe he could just ask. “Can I suck your dick?”

 

Tormund took a hand off his waist and lay it against his face, his thick thumb rough on Jon’s bottom lip.

 

“Yes,” he said. He stepped back and started unzipping his jeans, eyes still on Jon.

 

Jon watched him, hypnotised by his movements. Tormund pulled out his cock, fat and wet with pre-come. Jon had a moment to be grateful that Tormund wasn’t massive, then he realised he was just staring and dropped to his knees.  

 

He’d thought about this more than once since the idea had occurred to him, furtive and guilty every time. He’d never wanked off to the idea, feeling too much like it was crossing a line. He took Tormund’s cock in his mouth, pushing forward as far as he could until he started to gag, then pulling back again. He could feel himself drooling, could taste Tormund’s pre-come on his tongue. It was better than he’d imagined.

 

“Want me to fuck your mouth?” Tormund asked, almost tenderly.

 

Jon wiped his chin with one hand then looked up and nodded.

 

He was infinitely careful, pushing in only as far as Jon could take it before pulling out again, slowly building up a rhythm. It was the mix of rough and gentle and that had Jon reaching to rub himself through his jeans. He was vaguely aware that he was making sounds around Tormund's cock as he fucked in and out of his mouth, but didn’t have sufficient brain space to worry about it.

 

Finally Tormund pulled back, panting out something that was probably Finnish.

 

“Come on, up,” Tormund said, crouching down to put his hands under Jon’s arms then heaving him up to his feet.

 

“Do you want to take those off?” He asked as he stripped off his own jeans and underwear before taking hold of his t-shirt and pulling it over his head.

 

“Not my shirt,” Jon said, his pulse beating a triple beat.

 

“Not your shirt,” Tormund agreed, taking his own and wiping Jon’s face with it.

 

He regarded him for a moment before kissing him, Jon leaning into it until he forgot his worry about his scars. Tormund stepped back and sat on the edge of his bed. Jon started to undo his own jeans one handed. He left hand was likely to seize up under any amount of stress, but he had enough practice getting undressed one-handed that it didn’t slow him any. His t-shirt did nothing to hide his erection as he stepped forward between Tormund’s spread thighs. Tormund’s cock was wet with his spit and Jon swallowed heavily, thinking about how it might feel inside him.

 

“Come here, pretty crow,” Tormund said, pulling him onto the bed until Jon was half on top of Tormund, one of his thick thighs between his own. Jon rutted against it as they kissed, Tormund encouraging him with a hand on his ass.

 

“Go get my wallet out my jeans,” Tormund said, pulling back. Jon stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of the words. Tormund lightly swatted his ass, and Jon gaped at him in shock.

 

“What the fuck?”

 

“Now, little crow,” he replied, grinning.

 

Jon huffed at him, but did as he’d asked, digging around in Tormund’s jeans until he found his wallet. He bought it over and passed it to Tormund, who expertly pulled something out before tossing the wallet aside and kissing Jon again. Jon paid little attention to what Tormund was doing, then there were oiled fingers between his ass cheeks rubbing at his hole. Jon was not a stranger to having his prostate massaged, and pushed back against them, wanting them inside.

 

“Like this, do you?” Tormund asked.

 

Jon fought against the sounds that wanted to spill out of him as Tormund rubbed his fingers up and down but not in.

 

“Fuck you, yes,” he gritted out.

 

He felt Tormund grin against his mouth as he pushed first one then two thick fingers into him. The shock of the second finger—far thicker than any woman’s—caused him to jerk forward before flexing his thighs and easing himself backwards again, fucking himself onto them. He didn’t last long with Tormund’s fingers inside him, biting his lip as he came. He lay on Tormund’s chest panting for a moment, before forcing himself up onto his forearms. He was going to return the favour any moment now, he told himself, trying to focus on what to do next.

 

Tormund was watching him, a smirk on his face and he lazily tugged at his own cock.

 

“How about I fuck your mouth again?” he suggested. Something about the precise curve of his accent made the request infinitely more filthy.

 

“Yeah,” Jon said, his dick attempting to twitch with interest. Tormund moved and Jon sat up, turning so his back was against the wall.

 

“Okay?” Tormund asked, and Jon nodded.

 

Tormund moved forward on his knees until his cock was just in front of Jon’s mouth. Jon opened his lips wide and Tormund slid his cock in. He fucked in a short, staccato rhythm, pulling back a little when Jon started to gag. Jon had his hands in his lap, letting Tormund take him as he wanted to, one hand wrapped in his hair and the other on the base of his cock.

 

Tormund gritted out something in his native tongue, then spoke again in English.

 

“I want to come in your mouth.”

 

Jon moaned his agreement, and Tormund groaned and shoved his cock three quarters of the way into Jon’s mouth, hot come spurting down his throat. Jon swallowed what he could, but he could feel it dripping down his chin and onto his t-shirt. Tormund held him there for a few seconds, then pulled back, still coming weakly.

 

Jon sat there pulling air into his lungs while Tormund fished over the side of the bed, coming up with his t-shirt to wipe Jon’s face. Jon got with the program and took it off him, cleaning himself up as best he could. Tormund got off the bed, rummaging in Jon’s tiny kitchenette and returning with a glass of water.

 

Jon took it gratefully, and Tormund lay back down on the bed. There was barely enough room for both of them. Once he’d drunk his fill he rolled over to Tormund, who lifted an arm in invitation. Post-sex cuddling was high on Jon’s list of enjoyable activities, so he pushed himself down the bed and under Tormund’s arm.

 

-

 

“Can I tell you about my scars?” He asked. He thought he might have dozed for a few minutes.

 

“Of course,” Tormund replied, his voice rumbling under Jon’s ear.

 

“I’m adopted. When I was five. I don’t remember my birth parents. The couple who adopted me already had two children of their own: Dany was seven and Vincent was eight. I think I Rae, my dad, wanted another boy, maybe he or Ari couldn’t have any more kids.” He shrugged under the weight of Tormund’s arm, but Tormund didn’t reply, he just started to run his hand through Jon’s hair as he spoke.

 

“Vince hated me. I think he’d enjoying having Dany to himself, to treat as he saw fit, but with me there was someone else to take her attention away from him and his demands. He was only a kid at the time of course, but he never changed: he just got taller and moved from pinches and kicks to barbed words and manipulation.

 

“Our parents loved him. He and Dany have—Vince had—this beautiful white blonde hair, and were both academically excellent. He always got whatever he wanted, so he expected to be treated like royalty, no matter how he behaved.

 

“His first car was stolen three days after his parents bought it for him—he’d left his keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked because he didn’t like it, so they bought him a new one. He was 19, Dany was 18 and I was 16. He’d been sent by our parents to pick us up from school and was pissed because he wanted to be doing something else. He’d had a few drinks as well, though we didn’t know that at the time.

 

“Dany was in the back of the car with me. I can’t remember why we both decided to sit in the back — maybe he was being especially obnoxious that day. I think it made him worse, that we were so close. Anyway, he was messing around, driving too fast and swerving. We lived out in a village about an hour from London, and there was hardly anyone else on the roads.

 

“‘Are you scared?’ he kept asking, and Dany told him to stop it. I don’t remember what happened next, but Dany was conscious for most of it. He took a corner too fast and lost control. The car flipped over and landed on the side I was sitting. I broke my arm, some ribs, fractured my jaw, and punctured a lung. I lost a lot of blood and the skin on my left side was a mess and my hand was pretty mangled. Dany broke her collarbone, wrist, and nose, and had severe whiplash, but her seatbelt and the way the car landed saved her from worse. When the ambulance arrived they got her out first cause she was in the best shape—she was talking to them, telling them to hurry so they could get to her brother, to me. She said she’d seen me breathing. She hadn’t: she’d been convinced I was dead. She lied so they’d get me out next. I felt guilty about that for a long time.”

 

“And Vincent?”

 

“We were told that he was probably dead on impact, but we’ll never really know.”

 

“Was your sister okay?”

 

“Yeah, Dany is a survivor, and I don’t think it’s ever occurred to her that it’s something she   _could_ feel guilty about. As far as she’s concerned, she made a decision and that’s that. There’s no point thinking about might have beens.” Jon smiled and added, “She’s a Senior Accountant at Unilever now.”

 

Tormund raised his eyebrows at that.

 

“And you’re still close?”

 

Jon nodded. “Yeah, we speak most days,at least check in if we don’t talk to each other. We tried living together for a bit, but… she’s pretty intense and focused, and I’m er, not. But yeah, she’s the only family that matters to me.”

 

“And your parents?”

 

“They loved Vincent. He was their golden boy. I don’t think they forgave me for surviving, or Dany for the choice she made. I used to go visit on holidays, but I haven’t been back for years. The whole place is a shrine to Vincent: pictures and fresh cut flowers everywhere.”

 

John pulled back then and took off his t-shirt, casting it to one side. He knew what it looked like, he’d seen it enough in the mirror to be mostly used to it — but he hated how other people reacted to them.

 

Tormund reached up and ran his hand over the rough skin and thick surgery scars that wrapped around Jon’s left side, twisting under his armpit and up his arm to where his left hand was missing the last two fingers. Tormund wasn’t _not_ gentle, but he wasn't careful about it either: there was nothing of pity in his touch, and Jon was grateful of it.

 

“I died,” Jon admitted, wanting to get it all out in one go.

 

Tormund looked at him, his hand still curved over the scars.

 

“Once on the side of the road and once in surgery. I don’t—I don’t remember anything but waking up in the hospital a few days later. But they told me I died.”

 

Tormund gently pulled him down so he was tucked once more into his side.

 

“I’m glad you survived, little crow.”

 

“Yeah, me too.”

 

-

 

There was no way that they were going to fit into his single bed, but Tormund had simply suggested that they go back to his to sleep, as if voicing a desire for further intimacy with someone you’d had sex with only once wasn’t a humbling leap of faith.

 

Jon had woken late in a panic, saying a hurried goodbye to the huddle of blankets and bed head that was Tormund before throwing himself out the door and towards the bus stop. He’d gotten a sad look from Bob, their HR manager, when he’d rolled in at 11:30. He’d had a meeting with some people from a local disability group who they’d paid to check their new website, and he voice-typed their concerns. He sometimes forgot about his hand during sex, gripping the bedsheets and then paying the price in pain the next day. When he found himself checking his phone for the tenth time in as many minutes he put it away and stubbornly ignored it until the end of the day.

 

He showered when he got back to his flat, half-thinking he should go to the gym, half-thinking he should just text Tormund already, when his phone buzzed with a two word message.

 

_Bring milk_

 

Jon swore at his phone, debated walking down to Tesco just to draw it out a bit, then realised he was kidding himself. He shoved on his shoes and went to the nearest corner shop, paying a small fortune for the privilege of half a litre of unheard of brand, semi-skimmed, and then walked up to Tormund flat.

 

“Hey,” Tormund said when he answered the door.

 

“Hey,” Jon echoed like an idiot.

 

Tormund grinned at him, kissing him hello and taking the milk off him.

 

“You didn’t go to Tesco?” Tormund asked as he walked into the kitchen. Jon would normally head straight to Tormund’s room, but that seemed a little presumptuous in light of them fucking last night.

 

“No.”

 

“Ah, did you miss me too much to go all that way, my pretty crow?” he said, coming back to where Jon was loitering in the hallway.

 

“You always call me that,” Jon said instead of answering the question.

 

Tormund came and loomed over him, which was an impressive feat considering the fact he was wearing bermuda shorts and a pink t-shirt proclaiming him to be a porn star.

 

“I’m not sure how you’d react to being called ‘sweetheart.’”

 

Maybe Jon wasn’t the only one feeling his way here.

 

“Why don’t you try it out?” Jon suggested.

 

“Did you miss me, sweetheart?” Tormund’s voice was odd, as if he’d aimed for mocking and missed.

 

“Yeah, I did.”

 

That got him a kiss, then Tormund led the way into his room where he flopped down on his ugly brown chair. He patted his knee expectantly.

 

“I’m not sitting on your lap,” Jon said, crossing his arms.

 

Tormund sighed dramatically, pushed himself up, then swept Jon up into a bridal carry. Jon may or may not have yelped. He sat down again, Jon still in his arms.

 

“Now,” he said, while Jon just blinked at him. “I think we should do the relationship talk now.”

 

Ten minutes later and Jon was both extremely turned on and a little emotionally rung out. He’d turned to sit in a slightly less damsel-in-distress manner, but every so often the realisation that _Tormund could pick him up_ would occur to him and he’d lose the thread of the conversation. So far they’d agreed not to see other people, which was laughable in Jon’s case, but he understood the need to say it; that despite it being clear that Jon liked it when Tormund took the lead in sex they didn’t need a safeword because Tormund had no plans to ever ignore his ‘no’ or ‘stop’; and that Tormund was to let him know if he was clenching his left hand too much so he wouldn’t have to suffer the next day.

 

“Good talk,” Tormund said, “Shall we order food?”

 

“No.”

 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” He continued, grinning like the shit he was, “or perhaps you’re tired and would like a nap?”

 

“I want you to fuck me.”

 

Tormund looked entirely too pleased with himself which should have been warning enough for him pushing himself and Jon up off the chair, catching Jon just before he lost his balance.

 

“Okay then,” he said, kissing Jon before he’d properly recovered his composure. Jon kissed him back, already desperate for Tormund to be closer. They made their way slowly to the bed, undressing as they went. Mostly themselves, as Tormund left Jon to decide if he wanted his t-shirt on or off. Jon made himself strip it over his head before he could get too caught up thinking about his scars. Having Tormund naked against him was as good as he’d imagined it to be, the heavy weight of him as he bit and kissed Jon’s neck.

 

Tormund pulled away long enough to grab something from his night stand. He sat back between Jon’s splayed legs, coating his fingers in lube and then slowly starting to stretch Jon open. Jon threw an arm over his eyes, unable to stand Tormund’s intense gaze for long.

Once Jon began to push back a little, setting a rhythm, Tormund removed his fingers. Jon made an embarrassing noise at the loss and looked up in time to see Tormund rolling on a condom and liberally coating himself with lube. It was truly bizarre not to be the one carrying out the condom ritual, but Jon didn’t care once Tormund was pushing into him, slow and sure.

 

“Is it good?” Tormund asked.

 

“Yes, yes — please keep going.”

 

“I think I like it when you ask me politely.”

 

That was enough to bring Jon back to himself a little.

 

“Fuck off.”

 

Tormund laughed, more than a little breathless, then thrust at an angle that forced a moan from Jon.

 

“You are—such a dick,” Jon panted as Tormund thrust against the spot again.

 

“I want to fuck you until you come and then I want to carry on fucking you while you’re sensitive and sore,” Tormand said, in the same tone of voice one might read the weather report.

 

Jon felt his dick twitch. “Yes,” he ground out, keeping the _please_ that wanted to escape between his teeth.

 

Tormund slowed down to thrust shallowly, purposefully missing his prostate.

 

“How about a please? I thought you English were supposed to be polite.” He fucked in once, hard, and Jon moaned.

 

“Fuck you.”

 

Tormund unerringly found his prostate again.

 

“Shit, please, okay? Please.”

 

“Good enough for now but next time, sweetheart, I think you will beg.”

 

Naked and laid out beneath him, Jon didn’t even try to hide how much the idea turned him on.

 

-

 

**Epilogue**

 

Jon should have never introduced Tormund to Dany.

 

He should have told her Tormund was busy, he should have broken into a lab and eaten a bubonic plague sample. Anything to avoid the acute state of embarrassment he’d been in since they sat down.

 

So far they had discussed the time Jon had eaten nettles on a dare; the time he’d run face-first into a netball post; and the bald patch under his bottom lip where his beard never grew in. _I thought he shaved it like that to look more pouty,_ Tormund had said, and oh how they’d laughed.

 

He decided to go sulk in the bathroom for a bit, but when he came back he could see that Dany was sitting very straight in her chair and Tormund looked absolutely petrified. Jon grinned to himself, sure Tormund was currently getting the ‘if you hurt my brother I will come to your house and set you on fire’ speech. Dany could be terrifying when she wanted to be.

 

He made sure to walk a little heavier as he approached the table, and put his hand on Tormund’s knee as he slid into the seat next to him. Tormund put his hand over his and laced their fingers together. Jon wondered how long he was supposed to leave it before telling him he loved him. And then there was Dany, sat across from them and looking incredibly smug. She’d been the first person to ever choose him over anyone else.

 

Maybe it hadn’t turned out so bad after all.

 


End file.
